Dark Angel Before the Dawn

“Who… who the

fuck

… is helping you?”

“

I

ask the questions. Tell me, and I'll let you live, and we'll go partners on the necklace. You can be my second- in-command, Moody… ”

Moody's mind, clouded by pain, tried to parse that:

what made Max suddenly more valuable than the Heart of the Ocean?

“Where is she, Moody? Or do you start losing kneecaps?”

Moody swallowed blood, then sputtered, “Gone. The girl's… gone.”

“Don't lie to me, goddamn it!”

“Do you… see her? She's gone, I tell you… ”

“Where?”

“She… she didn't say. Quiet, that one… ”

Kafelnikov again slammed the man's head into the floor. Blood exploded in an arc around Moody's face.

That was when Moody, barely hanging on to consciousness heard footsteps— hard soles on the cement floor. Someone new had entered; someone was on the periphery… watching…

“Your last chance, Moody—

where is she?

”

Through broken teeth and bleeding lips, Moody managed to say, “Don't worry, Kafelnikov… once she finds out what you've done to her family… you won't have to look very hard… She'll turn up.”

The boot-heel footsteps started up again… moving closer.

Moody turned his head sideways and saw a man in black combat gear approach— blond, late forties, with a face that might have seemed boyish if the slitted eyes weren't those of a snake.

And Moody knew, just

knew:

he could smell the black-ops military on the man; no doubt at all—

this was the devil Kafelnikov had made his deal with.

“This is the leader?” the blond man asked. “This is Moody?”

Kafelnikov rose, leaving Moody in his bloody sprawl.

“Yes, Colonel Lydecker,” Kafelnikov whispered. “What's left of him, anyway. But he says—”

The blonde and the Russian stood near Moody; no one else heard the sotto voce conversation…

Lydecker's mouth twitched in an otherwise impassive face. “I heard what he had to say, Mikhail.”

Looking up sideways, Moody saw the blond in black. smiling innocuously down on him. “If you know where the girl is, and tell us… I'll see that you live, and even let you keep your necklace.”

Moody felt unconsciousness trying to move in and take him. He managed, “If I knew… I'd tell you… ”

Lydecker studied him like a lab specimen. “But you don't?”

Moody shook his head, and flecks of blood spattered the cement. “No… much as I'd… love to see her… kick all your sorry asses… ”

Holding out an open palm, Lydecker knelt over Moody, and said to the Russian, “Your gun, please.”

Kafelnikov filled the colonel's palm with the automatic.

Lydecker asked Moody, “Are you a religious man?”

“No.”

“Then you won't need time for a prayer.”

But Moody sent up a quick one, anyway, for Max's safety, in the moment before the colonel fired the automatic, sending a bullet through Moody's left temple, crashing through his right, burying itself in the floor.

“Goddamn it!” the Russian blurted, rushing over. “What's wrong with you!”

Lydecker took Kafelnikov by the arm and whispered, as if to a lover, in the man's ear: “What's wrong with

you,

Mikhail? You made me dispatch him:

He heard you call me by name.

I wasn't here… remember?”

Then, lip twitching with disgust, Lydecker placed the automatic back in the Russian's hand and shoved the man away from him.

Brood members, looking on, exchanged glances, surprised to see their leader take such abuse without protest.

As Lydecker walked toward the exit, the Russian called, “With him dead, how the hell am I supposed to find the stone?”

Without turning, Lydecker said, “It's probably somewhere in the building. Look for it yourself… You have several hours before any police show… I've seen to that.”

The Russian said, “

You've

got manpower! At least pitch in—”

From the doorway, Lydecker bestowed a mild smile on the Russian. “You've got all the help from me you're going to get today… Let me know if you get a lead on the girl.”

Then the blond man in black glanced around at the dozens of dead Clan members, who lay like discarded candy wrappers on the theater floor.

“Terrible thing to do to a bunch of kids,” Lydecker muttered.

And was gone.

Chapter Eight

ART ATTACK

STERLING ESTATE

SEATTLE, WASHINGTON, 2019

Under the cover of a dense fog, Max made her way across Puget Sound in a small battered motorboat, the outboard chugging like a tired vacuum cleaner— she had “borrowed” it from a nearby group of similar craft designated for tourist rental, and a sleeker, faster number would have been preferable, of course… but the absence of such a boat might have raised too much attention.

Such tactics were second-nature to the X5-Unit. The night air was windless but cool, almost cold. Vashon Island, her destination— home of her target— lay somewhere in the mist off the port bow. In her black turtleneck, black slacks, and rubber-soled boots— and the new black leather vest with pockets for all her toys— she might have been (but was not) a commando mounting a one-woman raid. The ensemble had been expensive, but even a bandit could be stylin', right?

That brittle chill in the air promised a deeper cold to come, and Max was glad she hadn't had to swim. Just because she'd been genetically engineered to ignore such trivialities as freezing her buns off, she saw no reason to embrace hardship.

As the boat putt-putted into the fog, Max kept the throttle down on the motor, both for safety's sake, on this pea-soupy night, and so as not to advertise her approach. It was possible there was security, in this wealthy part of the world, that she had not anticipated.

Some security she

could